


Forget His Name

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: Took my Boat Down to Hotel Road [9]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Bedivere – the lone survivor of Camlann – had disappeared as soon as Arthur's funeral pyre had gone out, leaving his sword and armor behind. He had taken Lancelot's sword instead. Where he went and who he became would be lost to history, his story effectively ending with Camelot's.
Series: Took my Boat Down to Hotel Road [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663936
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Forget His Name

“Who were you,” it seemed like a simple enough question, “before the War blew through?”

“I was no one,” Bedivere lied.

The interested party snorted and slid him another tankard of ale.

–

“I know that sword,” a stranger told him.

“It's just a sword,” Bedivere lied again.

“No it isn't,” the stranger insisted, “I've seen it before, the King's Champion had it when he blew through town.”

Bedivere nearly laughed, the mental image the innocuous statement drew up throwing his guard off its anchor point.

“The entire court is dead,” Bedivere said, “everyone knows that.”

“So did you steal his sword?” the stranger asked.

“Watch your tongue,” Bedivere did not snap, but just barely did he manage to keep his tongue in check, “Lesser men might have you dragged through the streets for such a dangerous accusation.”

The stranger laughed, but left Bedivere alone.

–

“You seem a man of high standing,” the man standing to his left said, “Why are you serving with people society would rather forget?”

“Because I would rather forget,” Bedivere answered honestly this time.

The man who'd asked the question laughed, a cruel sound.

“You'll forget everything when you're dead,” the thing was twisted around where fear should have been, these mercenaries about to lead the banner's charge into a battle some new or otherwise young King whose idea of power meant taking land whether or not is was fertile desperate for men who did not mind dying. A payment was promised at the end of this, one locked in a small vault whose key rested on a leather cord around Bedivere's neck.

If this went as the past several of these battles had, each carrying a banner for a man who had not earned it, who did not have anyone he wanted to call a proper bannerman, Bedivere would be the only one collecting his payment.

–

_The worst part was he hadn't found Kay's body. No one found Kay's body. It was either too mangled in the carnage or so exposed that by the time Bedivere had finished his duties to Arthur and that fucking sword there was nothing left to identify._

_If he could do it over, if he got another chance and that chance involved Kay, he'd pledge loyalty to Kay, to whatever it was they had between them that extended so far beyond companionship and love that it **hurt** to think about, especially on nights like this, where he could not run out of coin save for losing his entire purse but no amount of money could buy him back what he had lost._

–

“I know that sword,” another stranger halfway across the continent said.

“It's just a sword,” Bedivere lied.

“No,” this stranger would not be so easy to dissuade, “that's the sword of the Unfallen Mercenary.”

“The who?” Bedivere nearly choked on air.

“You're the merc who doesn't die,” the stranger's voice held a reverence to it, “Who goes from battle to battle on the front lines and emerges from every one.”

“Uhm,” Bedivere had no idea how to proceed from here. He wanted to lie, but this was not something he had considered, not a series of lies he'd practiced until he could recite them drunk or otherwise intoxicated. This was not something he had heard before, not an idea he'd considered, that his reputation as no one had proceeded him.

“You're good luck,” the stranger took his only hand, “Please, come with me.”

Bedivere let himself be lead by the hand, the stranger probably half his age, face fresh and eyes carrying no weight behind their shine.

–

He was on the front line again, this time a part of a band of twenty at most against a small army, well over a hundred. This band, this ragtag group of bastards and orphans who'd only grown into men a few summers past wanted to hold sovereignty over their ancestors' land. They would not yield to the new Lord's demands to incorporate themselves into _his_ lands.

If this didn't kill him, he'd accept the **Unfallen Mercenary** moniker.

–

It was how he hired himself out, the Unfalled Mercenary, eventually coming to revel in the fear it struck into those he opposed.

He wondered, privately, carefully, what Lancelot would think of his sword being Bedivere's proof of identity.

–

He grew Tired, his hair more gray than any other color, his old scars beginning to hurt when the weather changed suddenly.

And yet, he still stood at the end of every day whether the battle was with other men or with the demons he carried in his soul.

–

“I'm a fucking diplomat,” he growled into his drink, “A lifetime of service and now I'm a fucking diplomat.”

It had been a surprise, when the first aspiring warlord who heard the Unfallen Mercenary stood at the forward point of the oncoming forces decided to call a meeting to see if an agreement could be made instead of blood shed.

Bedivere had not had much at all to do with the proceedings: he simply stood there, helmet off, telltale sword strapped to his hip, arms crossed over his chest.

When it happened the second time, he was even more surprised than the first.

Then it happened a third time and he began to wonder if he would ever get to swing his sword in battle again.

And that was the real kicker, wasn't it? It was his sword now, not Lancelot's Secace, but the Unfallen Mercenary's nameless sword.

It was fitting, he thought, that both he and his sword should be without a name as they traveled together. 

–

_He'd taken Lancelot's sword in the heat of the moment, anger and regret fueling him more than thought. The Champion was dead, his King was dead, neither of them on the same side. The battle had been one of ideas that were fueled by the blood that was shed in their name – Lancelot's love against Arthur's law against Mordred's birthright._

_Now the throne sat forgotten, the Queen was missing as far as anyone knew. And Bedivere? Well._

_Bedivere hoped he could one day truly forget his name. Perhaps then he could forget all he'd lost._


End file.
